My Hand is Fate
by lugiamew1
Summary: Stage actor Nils Thomassen is a serial killer who chooses poisons as his agent of choice. Hans Densen is a humble artist and interior designer who lacks the energy he wants and tries to keep in his life. When the two fall in love, Nils' dark secret must be kept away from Hans... DenNor and a side of SuFin. As story progresses, summary liable to change.
1. Curtain Time

Dimethylmercury. A highly toxic substance that would quietly seep into the skin and, after months, cause its most unfortunate host to expire.

Midnight barks of neighborhood dogs infrequently pierced this tainted silence. The twilight's solace was betrayed the heinous deed committed under the lights of the few stars in the sky, though it was not as if any one person knew of it, save for one person lurking in a house that he did not own. A man of pale complexion had paid another of chilled temperature a short visit, stalking about the quarters, small creaks of the floorboards following him beneath his shoes. Any other man would scream, shout, or be quite generally mortified by the sight before him, but this man was not such a one.

The owner of this lavish home and its furnishings, paid for by black money, but so arrogant he thought not to acquire some form of security, laid in quiet on the floor. His limbs were cast about to wherever they fell with him earlier, and his eyes are open, but cold and lifeless as they stared up at the ceiling. To the other alive, well, and breathing man, it is such a shame that this unfortunate fellow's suit is wasted on himself, a man of power in crime, reduced to what he was now: a corpse.

The pale man, cloaked in a dark bodysuit to hide himself in the shadows from the uninvited leer of unassuming people, stooped over the body—no, how generous of him, to use words that implied it was somebody else's—_his_ victim. Under a cotton mask to match his suit, the man sneered at the other's chest that no longer heaved in panic at his own declining state of being. For further examination, he knelt, extending a gloved hand to cup his chin to turn his face, eyes running over every detail, from the horrendous stubble that would never again be shaved to the man's hair, slicked done in such a pretentious fashion and sealed with gel. Despite his disgusting appearance, the man still found such beauty in his victim's death.

He shifted his hand away from the chin, running it down the throat that no longer demonstrated the warmth of a heartbeat to the silk tie clutching the undersides of his fine shirt, and further down to the buttons of his suit jacket. The man could picture this one now, rotting under the dirt, flesh becoming nothing more than the meal of maggots... it brought such unadulterated glee to him.

"Oh, you poor fool of a man... to even conceive the idea that you would always be on top of everybody else. But look at you, now..." he hummed in a low tone. The man clenched his teeth, and jerked his hand up to grip the flesh of the body's vile neck underneath the chin.

"Nothing but a weak man, who fell to just a touch of your own damned mercury!" he hissed, saying nothing more. He released the other man's neck and returned to his feet, taking this last moment to feel the rush of the moment surging within, heart throbbing excitedly at the sheer thrill of having ended a worthless life at last.

Nils Thomassen would have spat on him if it wouldn't have given him away to the forensics when they arrived. Einar Fredriksen, a common gangster, would join another of his deceased eight to never disturb the streets of Oslo again.

* * *

Days like these were some of Hans' favorite. Even with the ice frosting the road with bits of salt sprinkled over it by the city, or dirty snow lying about the corners of sidewalks and against walls, for the sun was awake and peeking through the clouds to brighten his day. It was true that he mostly preferred cloudless skies, but he was grateful for any time the sun would show its face in the usually drab skies. It was only too bad that the freezing air and snow wouldn't be gone until April. The worst of it, probably not even due to come until next month in February. Hans sighed at his cheerful thoughts becoming dreary ones, but it wasn't like he had anything else to think about, waiting for the train as his passage to work. This was exactly why he loathed rising from the comfort of his bed so early. It'd be a great idea, he'd assure himself, to get a good window seat to see the outside from.

The Dane's thought was lost to a void, interrupted by the hum of the metro train to whisk Hans away from the bore of the barren station platform, stepping inside once the doors opened the way to temporary shelter from the cold and the smell of coffee from other commuters. He quietly found a little piece of sanctuary for himself by a window, as he hoped, while the last of the few other commuters on the platform stepped aboard and the doors shut behind them, the train lurching forward to its next destination.

Hans lost himself in his mind again as the trees and buildings whizzed by, buildings dominating the former as it drew nearer to the city center. Even if it was beautiful to him, Hans had found his life turning evermore boorish despite his attempts to keep it lively, clear in his often joyful approach to everything or even something trivial like keeping his wild hair. His work as an interior designer at least kept it different enough, every client wanting something new, but sometimes it was just difficult working with the more particular ones. At least, he consoled himself, today wouldn't be like that.

The train soon descended to the underground, taking the sky and scenes away from Hans' sight, much to his disappointment. The train buzzed for a stop and opened its doors, and along with the crowd, he followed, out to his station. Climbing the stairs and resurfacing to the freezing air, he let out a heavy sigh, with the very breath frosting over into fog before his eyes. Hans turned the corner of the sidewalk and passed people he would never remember later on his way to the theatre.

Here, now, was a place he could be his own sort of creative, a goal in mind, but a picture to portray and paint with his very own two hands. He had found a hobby in coming and volunteering to help create the backdrops that gave life to a performance, and that was something he could keep a bit of pride for in his life.

He passed a woman at the counter, waving quickly and nonchalantly, and she returned the friendly gesture with a smile of welcome. Hans strode on beyond the lobby doors, but almost pitched forward to fall when he stopped himself quite suddenly at the sight of a tall, Swedish man with what he considered to be ghastly glasses lingering in the corner by a row of chairs.

"Hey!" Hans cheered at him with a toothy grin, the lofty man taking his eyes away from the floor to meet his, "Berwald! Long time, no see!"

"I should've expected ya to consider a week a 'long time'." Berwald sighed exasperatingly, lifting himself from a lean on the wall only to have Hans practically skip over and then give him a friendly slap on the back.

"Ah, man," he pouted, "don't look _too_ happy to see me, now." Hans snorted at his own sarcasm, and while the Swede appreciated Hans' friendship, he found some things about him worthy of rolling his eyes at, like his somewhat pretentious need to laugh at his own jokes. Berwald pushed his oblong glasses back to their perch on the bridge of his nose after Hans had almost knocked them off with that rough greeting.

Hans had finished with his chortling, and then ran his fingers through the hair on the back of his head, imposing a rather practical question: "What're you doing here anyways? I never figured you were the drama type."

"Well I expected t'see ya here eventually. Yer perfect for theatre, always gettin' in everybody's business," Berwald grunted, poking at the Danish man in all good fun, even if his sense of humor is buried miles-deep in the dirt of seriousness.

"W-what?" Hans stammered, the joke a bit surprising. "Was that a... joke? A joke, right? Your humor needs... work. Yeah, duh, I'm here! Who d'you think helps make some of the masterful backgrounds that make these productions so great?" He waved his hand as if to downplay his supposed greatness. "But, hey, I asked you a question first!"

"Lighting. I do some'a that. S'pose I just came to see what everyone does before my work comes in." Berwald shrugged, though slightly intrigued that he would find that out about Hans.

"For the year I've been doin' this, I never knew that. Huh! I guess we just never talked about it over coffee. Hey, that reminds me..." Hans trailed off, briefly losing his topic, but remembering it shortly after, face lighting up. "Ah! Right! How's your little boyfriend Tino doing?" he asked teasingly, puckering his lips to make it sound even more ridiculous of a question.

Berwald merely glared at him, but couldn't keep it up, covering his face with a hand in slight embarrassment. "...He's been cute. As always."

Hans almost laughed at how flustered Berwald seemed. The Dane found it somewhat hilarious that Berwald adored him so. "Well, good! It's too bad we never actually meet that often. But I guess being a cop makes that Finn a busy man."

Berwald shook his head in a vague attempt to regain his composure and push the thoughts of his lover out of his mind. "Ja, tha's how it is. But it'd be better that way. Last time we were all t'gether, Tino flipped you ever th' table when ya thought you could beat 'im at arm wrestling."

"Aw, come on, you're exaggerating...!" Hans protested.

"I'm not. Ya went right over." Berwald replied coolly.

"Are too!"

"Am not."

"Are! Too!"

"Am. Not."

Hans fumed at how stubborn the Swede could be. "You're a meeeeean friend, y-y'know that...?!" He whined, though leaning against Berwald to show his lightness about the issue.

"Ja, ja, I know." Berwald shrugged him off, brow furrowed at how heavy Hans is, or at least at how his thick winter jacket and scarf are. "Don'tcha have somethin' to be painting?"

Hans perked up at that, eyes widening in the midst of his recollection of duty. "Ah! Right! I'll talk to ya later, then! See ya!" He spat out hurriedly, waving vigorously as he turned on a heel to rush for the stage down the central aisle whilst flinging away his scarf and coat to land on a seat. Berwald raised a hand, waving with substantially less energy and a raised brow.


	2. Setting up Dominoes

A newspaper was dropped on the glass coffee table without regard to its place. Hans groaned in frustration at the lack of any good news in a long while and sunk back into his couch. Why, why was any of this happening? Every so often, months apart, another article about the so-called "Oslo Taipan" taking another life. True, he considered, maybe the Taipan did murder only those who have committed other crimes, but killing was still a heinous offense. Hans couldn't possibly wrap his head around it, why anyone would want to do away with life just like that. Or perhaps he was just too forgiving, briefly reasoning that maybe the victim could've turned back to the right path. Einar Fredriksen... Hans knew that he wasn't a kind man either, at least judging by the information revealed to the public in print, but he didn't deserve a fate such as this.

The Dane groaned, rubbing his temples. Thinking far too deep made the innards of his brain ache. He certainly wasn't a psychologist, able to decipher the meaning behind any awful act, for his head clouded by his utter compassion for people around him. The type of man who believed in second-chances. Even if he could never guess the motive, Hans couldn't help but ponder about what the Taipan was like. Any other average man? A lowlife? Someone bored with a seemingly infinite stock of venom? He doubted some of the possibilities, but continued this string of brainwork. Perhaps misunderstood, or a heart twisted by unfortunate events? He made an inward grunt of disgust at what he was trying to romanticize.

The Taipan was a killer and nothing more. He decided that he doesn't know anything, and thus shouldn't make assumptions. This man is dangerous, and that's all that was necessary to know to instill a quiet terror within the Dane.

Though, through the doldrum of nothing engrossing being on television and nothing but distressing stories on the paper, he had little choice in thinking about this... or did he? The greatest design of what he could fill his empty time and lift his downed spirits at his small apartment came to his mind as if sent by an angel, so simple in complexity but so sweet of an idea. With a wide grin, Hans pushed himself up from the sofa that carried his impression and he strode forth to the coat rack. Hans culled off his favorite coat, double-breasted with blooming claret in shade, and eased it on over his darker sweater. Its sleeves always vexatiously clung to the coat while he slipped it on, and as such, he eased it over the sweater to avoid issue.

Hans opted to leave his scarf behind this time around, as he wouldn't be gone long. It'd just be a stroll down to the city center for his favored coffee-house.

* * *

Clutching the warmth of the cup in his hands gingerly, Hans raised it to his lips again and took another sip with care, feeling the searing espresso trickle down his throat. It was always unwise to gulp it down, at least in his mind, because he would end up scalding his tongue and be aggravated by its sensitivity beyond the day after the incident happened. He wasn't sure if other people did that the same way, as he knew Tino surely drank coffee, but no matter how blistering the temperature, the strange Finn seemed to be able to run the entirety of the cup down his mouth in less than in a minute without flinching. He also knew that some people, after witnessing such a thing, might not actually mistake Tino for being the unholy progeny of a hellion, but they would be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

Hans chuckled softly to himself at the thought, unable to hold back a bit of a smirk at his jest towards Tino, although he would remind himself not to have these sort of thoughts around Berwald. A good friend who knew Hans liked to joke, yes, but he could tend to be a bit of a mother bear around Tino. Even if all he did was give Hans his elbow in the side, the Dane would still rather not have his ribs bruised.

The aroma of his coffee drew his attention away from the subject of Berwald for the time being, the sweet scent of his espresso carrying itself into his curious nose and away to join the other fragrances of varying coffees from other patrons and the machines. Somehow, mere smells could sway Hans as other simple pleasures could, and the scent of coffee was one of said smells that can. Caffeine kept people awake, particularly during midnight runs to finish work due the next day. It was especially a friend to Hans when his clientele was particularly large during the summer season and he forgot to source furniture for one or two clients. Despite the life-giving energy caffeine had with it, coffee's scent would still allay Hans more than anything else he could think of. It was probably why he always found himself here, paying another 25 kroner for a coffee every odd day or another.

This troubled the Dane in such a way that he knit his brow and bit his lip. It was reminding Hans how mediocre his life was turning out to be. It was easier just to dream in school that it'd be fun to be have a creative job with all the colors and inventive furnishings, it'd be fun to move to other places, fun to meet new people. Yet, the problem was that his job wasn't as exciting as he painted it to be, moving here a few years ago didn't seem so fun after settling in and having explored the city already, and meeting new people was harder than ever with a heavy tongue that was even still being accustomed to speaking Norwegian and it was something about the slightly standoffish community that put his energetic blaze down to candlelight. Or perhaps Hans truly was more bashful than the average person, and his perception was skewed. What bothered him was that the latter is the more than plausible truth. Either way, at least he had Berwald and a bit of Tino to spice up his life now and again.

Just as Hans began to take another swig of his cooling coffee, he opted to look away from the table that seemed to interest him so and actually look around instead of down like he was busy, which was somewhat of a joke in and of itself. His eyes surveyed the shop from the soft lights above giving the coffee house a warm atmosphere to the neutral colors of the store that would certainly put any customer in the mood for a hot drink.

People watching wasn't something he did often, but it was satisfying in a public place where he had nobody to talk or send a text to. A mother and her two little girls, all bundled up like small, fuzzy monsters, visited the counter briefly to fetch a coffee and two hot chocolates. A youthful musician, from the look of his aged trumpet case, ordered a cup of white tea and left to seat himself in a corner. '_How odd_', Hans pondered. The next customer, however, managed to pique his interest. There was just something about this man that Hans couldn't quite put a finger on. Perhaps he'd seen him elsewhere in the past? No, he would've definitely remembered someone like this; short, blond hair of such a fair color that was well-groomed and immaculate in every sense, a cross hair pin holding back the left side of his bangs, a nose of ample size that he could just prod every day...

If Hans wasn't in a public place and wouldn't have drawn attention, he'd slap himself square on the cheek, but settled for sucking one in and biting it. He'd never even met this person in proper, and he thought it crude of himself to think of this stranger like a friend already. How dare he, before not even asking a name? Hans would've scolded himself for ages if he hadn't realized that what he chastised himself for was the point. Indeed, how dare he before not asking a name? That was it. Maybe, just _maybe _Hans wouldn't mess this up and make a new friend. Maybe. Perhaps. Probably. _'Stop telling yourself things like this, you're procrastinating!' _Hans snapped at himself in his head.

He must hurry, for time was already running short. The man had received his black coffee he ordered, and already took the first step towards the door, intending to leave with it, and Hans behind for good unknowingly. The Dane cursed at himself. _'Get up,'_ he screamed internally, _'And say something to him, god damn it!' _No matter what he demanded of himself, he could only keep his behind firmly planted on the cushioned stool, staring dumbly at the stranger who grew ever closer to the door.

_'Go.'_ He insisted. The visitor grasped the cold handle of the door.

_'Go, go, go!'_ The door's release let in the cold and a reticent electronic bell sounded off like it did for every guest.

_'For fuck's sake!'_ The man began to pace past the windows and down the sidewalk.

It was then Hans finally forced himself to get up, a hand almost outstretched, but stopped dead. The other was already gone, turned the corner and disappeared with the wind. Hans stood paralyzed for a moment longer before sighing heavily and sitting back down to face the table and his nearly finished coffee. It wasn't until then that he noticed sweat was starting to bead on his brow, and it was wiped away by his own coat sleeve.

"Fuck," Hans whispered tensely under a breath, "Why does this always happen to me...?"

* * *

"Hey, Ber-bear!" Tino cheered lovingly into the phone. Berwald couldn't help adjusting his glasses to offset how warm his cheeks began to feel, as the name was embarrassingly adorable to him. "What'cha calling for? Checking up on me? You're so sweet, doing that all the time."

A pause came from Tino before he spoke again, causing Berwald to halt a breath he was about to use to correct the Finn. "Oh, wait. It's because I'm late again, isn't it?" Berwald needed only to let off an affirmative hum to let Tino know of his answer.

"I'm so sorry," he apologized, "It's just that I always get into last-minute paperwork. You know I feel guilty about it!"

"Tha's true, but what about our dinner?" Berwald asked with a raised brow, but his tone may have come off as if he already knew the answer.

"Oh my God. That's now, right now?" Tino shrieked, and the Swede winced at the noise, as well as in worry for whomever Tino may be talking around.

"I'm such a terrible partner, I-I know! Always late, always ruining plans..."

"Now, c'mon... yer not, Tino. I understand that bein' an officer is hard. If I could, I'd do it for ya, if not to ease th'stress in yer life."

"You mean that? Well... thanks! It's just that I know our dinner tonight was going to be special to you, and I feel guilty."

"Tha's alright," Berwald assured, "We can do it on Sunday instead when ya don't work. Right?"

"Aaaaah, that's a great idea!"

Berwald couldn't help a simper at Tino's excitement. Everything about the smaller man just excited him in every way.

"So, what's keepin' you this time? Just curious 's all." The Swede asked nonchalantly.

"Oh? They put me on the case with the killer. Y'know, the Oslo Taipan?"

That name made Berwald stiffen and bite his lip nervously. "That so...?"

"Mhm. But it's not like I'm the detective, no! I just... help out. Do paperwork. It's kind of boring, actually. Can't wait for them to have someone else assigned and I cycle out back to patrol."

"That's like ya. Y'always seemed t'be more keen on tackling drunkards or getting into gunfights."

"Mmm! It sure does liven up my day!"

"...Even if it is dangerous." Berwald let a hint of concern drop in his tone of voice, since Tino didn't seem to pick up on his earlier somewhat-sarcasm. Sometimes he just worried about Tino's sense of thrill and how it might get him into serious trouble. It terrified the Swede to think of anything that would stain his delight in life.

"Oh, don't talk like that... You know I'm only joking a little. It doesn't happen that often anyways." Tino scoffed. "Still better than doing paperwork."

"Just keep comin' home safe, a'right?" Berwald requested sadly.

He could practically hear Tino bouncing on the other end. "Don't worry, I will, I will, and I promise to make up the dinner to you. Your place, or mine?"

"Yours is alright." Berwald's frown became a small grin.

"Then I'll see you there! Goodbye, alright? I love you!"

"Love ya too. See you."

The both of them hung up, and Berwald sauntered over to the bathroom to freshen himself after setting down the phone back into its receptacle on the kitchen wall. He couldn't possibly see Tino straight after his job, smelling and definitely looking like he crawled out of a factory, working around industrial machines with tools. It was still nevertheless unacceptable to be in the presence of the bright Finn in such an awful state, and he would look his best. Nothing would ever be more important to him than time with Tino.

* * *

**A/N: Hi, all! It's your author Lulu actually talking for once. I hope you're enjoying this story so far, and I'm so awfully sorry if it's going slowly or if the chapters are too short for you. I promise it'll get better. Anyways, I'm here to shed light on some minor information. 25 Norwegian kroner is about equal to 5 American dollars, to get a sense of the price. Everything's pretty pricey there. Support is always appreciative and motivational, and thanks for reading so far again! -Lulu**


	3. A Fulfilling Fall

The morning after the next few days proved so dreary for Hans. Every morning was the same, at first, in every single conceivable way. Wake up at the crack of dawn, eat breakfast, take the metro trains to the same work. Yet, all mornings since that day at the coffee-house felt especially devoid of life, for whatever reason Hans couldn't discern. Perhaps it was just the opportunity to meet someone new whizzed by him, and he had been too cowardly to reach out a hand and grasp it between his fingertips. Hans couldn't be bothered with the introspection he'd need to conduct to fully understand it, unfortunately, with how crushingly monotonous work days were.

Hans tapped away at the keys across the board, staring listlessly into the computer screen at his desk. It was an ebony, modern, and minimalistic desk that matched his coworkers' desks, lining the studio's walls that were painted in such an outlandish fashion: shades of reds waving across the sea of stagnant white. Showrooms were boxed in on the opposite side of the studio from the workspaces, parading the trendiest designs of interior fashion. Hans would fill his spare time waiting for clients to call by examining those rooms from his desk. A room with flamboyant oriental style would occupy the left space, complete with the commonly favored paper lanterns softly illuminating the area with its incandescent glow, and the ink like furniture with red cushions. The middle room was certainly more rustic, with antiquated chairs and plaid curtains in front of faux windows, all tied together with neutral colors. Older couples seemed to favor this one the most when they came in for a gander, Hans noticed. The last room to the right had the prominent modern feel, matching the rest of the office. It was populated with rectangular furniture, from the couch to the lamps, only differed from the office by a more green color scheme. None of these rooms really suited himself, as Hans preferred to have a colorful living space that still managed to be balanced. Having this job could tend to curb one's tolerance for a disproportionate home and an owner with a despicably low sense of style. That much was clear to him when he visited Berwald's apartment, which was splattered in hideous combinations of blue colors.

Finally, something stimulating presented itself when the phone tucked away in his pants' pocket began to hum. Hans quickly took his hand's fingers away from the keyboard and fumbled with them in his pocket to get a grip on the phone. Pulling it up to his ear, he accepted the call and shouldered it, continuing to work at the computer as he spoke.

"Densen?" Hans said, as he would talk so many times on this damned device, he couldn't bother with any other greeting.

"Hans, it's me, Lars," the Dutch man greeted rather firmly.

"Lars? What's up? Make it quick, I'm in the office right now." Hans made somewhat of a friend in Lars, as they painted sets together with a couple other people.

"Right. Listen, about the painting that needs to be done on the other backdrops, I won't be there next time, neither will the other guys. I'm goin' on vacation with my sister. I just got word from them, too."

Hans' hands tensed and ceased their work at the keys.

"What?" he spat out tersely.

"Ya heard me. Sorry. I only get to vacation this time of year, alright? Cut me some slack."

"Cut you some slack? Are you kidding?! Those backdrops are wanted _before_ the premier, ya know...!" Hans hissed between his teeth to keep himself from bursting out in the quiet of the office.

"I'll make it up to you somehow. Besides, painting is more your thing than mine. Ye'll do fine."

"How do _you_ know, smart guy?"

"Dunno. I just figure."

Hans smacked his face lightly with his palm, groaning with closed lips. "Fine, but you definitely _do_ owe me. Say... a week's worth of beers on your tab." Even with this bargain, Hans still wanted to bash his head on the desk. If only his co-workers weren't around.

"Three days of it," he haggled.

"Five."

"Four."

Hans was quiet briefly as he realized this was probably as good a deal he'd get from Lars. "Fine, ya crook. Go have a good vacation or something while I slave away with paint buckets."

"Definitely. See ya around."

"Later." Hans hung up afterwards, still unable to believe this news, believe of course in the worst possible sense. Yes, painting was one of the more enjoyable things he had to do, but whole backdrops to finish on his own was like murder. And this time the one with a knife was Lars. Maybe the beer deal would make this worth it, the Dane thought.

Maybe not, on second thought.

* * *

Hours passed the next day while Hans slathered some base coloring on the next backdrop, then wiped away sweat from his brow. Painting might be fun, but the glaring light from above to give sight to Hans also made it warmer than he'd like while he tried to concentrate. As he had to cram in this job in time for dress rehearsal to take place, he ended up having to stay well after the usual time he did to meet the deadline. By this time, the actors were meeting behind him on the stage with the director to talk over the script and their duties. However, he couldn't be bothered to look over his shoulder at them, not tired enough to stop painting yet, but tired enough not to care about anything else.

Behind him, the director had stopped his chattering and left the actors to their own devices, which consisted of meeting and greeting each other. None of them honestly considered Hans' presence, other than the occasional glance to peek at what the stranger was doing, standing atop a broad ladder with a bucket of paint to reach the upper surface of the large canvas. Over and over he cursed Lars and the others, bending over to dip the paint in the dark blue meant to give basic color to the night sky the scene would portray.

As he righted himself to reach up, Hans shifted his weight in perhaps the most wrong way one could, and ended up throwing himself off-balance. His chest tensed in a determined attempt to keep himself on the ladder, but the forces of gravity had other plans for his waving arms. Hans, with a terse yelp, slipped from the ladder and plummeted to the wood of the stage, landing on his back with a thud. Thankfully, he'd kept his head up enough to keep injury away from that, but he'd certainly feel the ache in his back for a while. The paintbrush he held had been released from his grip, and it had grounded itself unceremoniously on Hans' face, slathering it in dark blue.

"Hey. You alright down there?" A man asked blandly. One of the actors had noticed his fall and had wandered over to check on the ailing Hans, looming over his face and offering a hand. The light from above made it difficult to see the man's face, but Hans gave a cheerful smile as he always did in this sort of embarrassing predicament.

"Ah.. Yep! Just a bit of a..." he paused to make a small noise of discomfort. "...Fall. Y'know. Everyday stuff." Hans brushed it off, though not smoothly. Despite this, he took his hand and slowly started to rise up from the floor, taking the paintbrush in his other hand.

"You fall often, then? Don't forget about your face, either." the man teased, pulling the rest of Hans' weight up until he was safely on two feet, then took his hand away to rest on his hip.

"Well, less often than you're implying, honestly!" Hans chuckled, eyes shut with it while he used his now free hand to wipe off any dust clinging to his messy shirt that he wore when he painted.

When the Dane opened his eyes next to get a view of his apparent savior, he tried to restrain a strong reaction to the sight of this man, for he was the very same one he saw in the coffee-house. Instead, a more controlled response of wide eyes and raised brows were present on his expression. The other man merely raised a brow at this supposed stranger's reaction. With a somewhat curious undertone is his voice, the man asked, "Is something the matter?"

Excited with his mouth pulled into a wide grin from awe, Hans quickly responded with a shake of the head, "No, no, nothing's the matter at all!"

"Is that so?" he answered slowly, as if suspicious of this oddly excited Dane. A fan, perhaps? Possibly...

"No, really! Nothing's wrong, it's just..." Hans took a moment to gather his thoughts and take a breath, then in more restrained excitement continued with, "It's gonna sound weird and maybe just a tick crazy, but I've seen you before! A few days ago... the coffee shop."

The man's face lightened at this revealing information. "Ah... yes, I recall. I usually make my own, I just didn't want to be late."

Hans suddenly felt his enthusiasm bloom in his heart and spread across his body, almost unable to believe he'd meet this character again, in this theatre of all places. "Yeah! I was just... too nervous to talk to you. I have trouble with... well, talking to new people and making friends. I'm a bit shy."

"Shy? You certainly don't seem that way with how... bouncy you are so far." he retorted.

"It's true, swear! Anyways... thanks for helping me up. If I may know, what's your name? Mine's Hans!"

"Nils. It's a pleasure, Hans." he said politely, extending a hand to shake while the other took its place on the other side of the hip. Nils briefly glanced down to watch Hans excitedly shake hands with a surprisingly warm hand, at least compared to his own colder one, then looked back up to meet eyes with Hans.

Hans leapt straight into small talk, hoping to immediately strengthen the bonds that weren't quite formed yet between the two. "So you're an actor, Nils? It's for the play I'm making these backgrounds for right now, yeah? Phantom of the Opera?"

Nils nodded lightly. "That's correct. I'm one of the leads, the Phantom, so it seems." Though he spoke little compared to Hans' babbling, it satisfied him nonetheless.

"Ah, cool! You play leads a lot?" he asked simply.

"Yes. I act professionally, after all." Nils was nothing if not confident in himself, although not to the level of boastful. "A bit off your chosen topic, but you're Danish, right?"

Hans held his mouth agape in surprise at how perceptive Nils proved to be, but then shut it with a gulp. "Wh-whoa, how'd you know?"

"Your hairstyle. ...A joke, of course. No, it was your accent. Anyone who speaks with a heavy tongue like that would come from there." Nils gave a shrug.

"Damn, and I was trying so hard to hide it." Hans laughed lightly, scratching at the back of his head to ease his nerves somewhat. "But really, then you must be a hell of an actor to get so many leads! I feel like it's an honor to even talk to you."

"Don't, it's no big deal. I'd hate to seem unapproachable. I'll admit, you're interesting so far yourself, with all these contradicting traits you're showing to me already." Nils really did think Hans was a curious person, so outgoing but so shy.

"Really? Hah, I guess that's good!" Hans beamed at his new friend, taking his hand away from his head and letting it hang at his side. "Well, I have backdrops to finish. My associates all thought it'd be fun to take vacation at the same time, so I've gotta handle this myself, meaning I have to stay even while you guys come in and practice. So I suppose we'll see each other around!"

Nils nodded at him, a very slight smile showing itself on his face. "Very well. I'll leave you to it. I'll see you another time, then."

"Sure, definitely! We can talk after the practice, too, though... Maybe exchange phone numbers so we can call each other!"

"Phone numbers, hm?" Nils briefly contemplated this, though soon replied. "Alright. After this meeting."

"Great! I'd better get back to painting, then." Hans gave the Norwegian a nod, then turned to go back to attending his backdrop, still ignoring the ebb of pain from his backside.

"Don't fall this time, yes?" Nils called over, eliciting a snort from the Dane.

This man would certainly prove to be very amusing.


	4. Paving for Plans

Every second Tino spent in this putrid room, the more he wanted to gag and sprint out, evident in how careful he was to only breathe through his mouth. The stark white walls of the autopsy room were pristine and clean as opposed to the odious body of Einar, whom Erzsébet covered with a white sheet to hide his body once again. The Hungarian woman tutted after her hands were free of the sheet, and they planted themselves on her hips. She gave Tino a quizzical glance with nuances of amusement.

"Tino, when you're done gagging inside, we can step out. It's not hard." she shook her head, leading a very stiff Tino outside. His very muscles seemed impaired by the odor, but once out of the room and the door shut firmly behind them, Tino heaved out a breath, then took another deeply to replace the lingering scent of a decomposing body, grinning as he did. Truthfully, however, he was more grateful for the mug of coffee he could now continue to savor, as Erzsébet refused to let him bring it into the room.

"Sorry that I've got sharper senses than you," he said teasingly, brushing once of his knuckles on her shoulder. Erzsébet rolled her eyes at this, responding with a terse, "Dumbass." Tino couldn't help his chuckle, but caught it abruptly to clear his throat.

"Yeah, I know. Shut my mouth and get back to business." Tino muttered, crossing his arms and briefly glancing down at the floor, then back up to meet Erzsébet's critical stare. He continued, "So then, what's the reason? Why'd he kick the bucket?" Tino raised the mug to his lips and took a lengthy swig of his coffee, nonchalantly shutting his eyes in pleasure.

Erzsébet would've lauded him for how absolutely broad and numb-minded his question was.

"How much mercury do you think you piss out?" She asked without issue. Tino's eyes flew open and he nearly choked on his coffee, instead letting the jarred backwash return to the mug.

"_What,_" Tino began with shock, "The hell does _that_ have to do with anything?!"

"Everything, I'd say. Sharper senses, right. The answer is, one to five micrograms." Erzsébet seemed nearly smug to be educating Tino like this.

"I still don't see how this has to do with how he died."

"Let me finish, huh? Einar's urinary mercury content was greater than 230 micrograms. And the toxic level is greater than fifty. That means, his body was pumped so full of mercury, there could be no other explanation for his death than mercury poisoning."

Tino furrowed his brow at Erzsébet's detail, but stumbled along with her science-speech, at least fishing out the cause of death. "That's a lot of mercury, then. So then how'd he get all the mercury inside? I don't think he was a miner. More like the type who shoots up places."

"Dimethylmercury. That's how he died."

"Dime-what-now?" Even still, the word seemed to have been brought up before.

"Di-meth-yl-mer-cur-y. Sometimes I don't even think you're listening, and you're helping work this case with the Taipan!"

"Not everyone's a scientist like you! I do the muscle-work!" Tino pridefully patted his arms, which were slightly plump like the rest of his body, but could no less bring down any man unfortunate enough to challenge him.

"Right, right." Erzsébet sighed, sometimes forgetting how much more happy Tino was with a more hands-on job. Much like he was with his tall partner, where she would admit that they did fit together quite nicely. "It's a very toxic substance that can kill you slowly over the course of months as the mercury builds up inside of you. Very volatile, very expensive, _very_ hard to get. Where do you suppose the Taipan would've gotten something like this?"

Tino squinted at her question as if it rang familiar, and he held up an index finger to signal her to wait, as he set aside his coffee and drew out a black notebook from one of his pockets. He flipped through, stopping on one page with his round cheeks perking with a smile.

"Ah, I think I know! Forgive me though, they just put me on the case. The other officers told me forensics found some empty small containers that contained traces of... the thing you were talking about. Dimethyl-something." he said passively, shutting the notebook with a snap and shoving it back down his pocket so that he might return the mug's warmth to his hands.

"I'm not the detective, but it sounds to me like the Taipan must've poisoned him with his own stock. Ironic right? No doubt a gang man would've been planning to use it on someone he couldn't stab upfront." Erzsébet joked somewhat, shrugging.

"Ironic, but still dangerous..." he trailed off, looking off into space with lazy eyes but a troubled expression muddling his face.

The Hungarian recognized his sudden shift in mood, and comfortingly place a hand on his shoulder. "What's the problem, Tino?"

"Ah, nothing much," he started, "It's just that Berwald's been constantly worrying about me ever since I've been put on this case. He somehow thinks I'll end up dead from cyanide or something like that... But I told him many times there'd be nothing to worry about! I'm just a cop, one of many." Tino's voice dripped with concern, but whether it was for Berwald's truth to his worry or that he was being too overprotective was unbeknownst even to the Finn.

Erzsébet nodded and gave him a sincere and heartfelt expression, silently communicating her sympathy. "Don't worry about it so much. I've only ever seen you two together a couple times, but he's a big teddy bear! He just doesn't want his sweet Tino to go away," she smiled with a little tune.

Tino raised a brow, but showed a thin smile to her.

"That's a little obvious. Maybe I'll reassure him a little and surprise him with some chocolates or something! Y'know, he has a huge weakness for toffee..."

"I'm sure! Why not make it a date then? Take pictures and send them to me!" she laughed boisterously.

"Erzsébeeeet, that's weird!" the Finn whined in contrast to his now broadened grin, but was obscured from view when Erzsébet gave him a brief hug, then ruffled his hair.

"You'll be fine, and Berwald knows it, too. Go have fun with that chocolate and toffee, ya got it? Don't send me pictures if you don't want to. ...But it'd still be nice."

Tino huffed, but nodded appreciatively. "No problem. And... thanks for being a good friend."

Erzsébet said not another word, but smiled widely.

* * *

Nils' entire person ached, even the very marrow in his bones as he trudged towards his house's door. Perhaps it would be due to his daily practice in dance he'd just completed back at the theatre, but most of the discomfort came from his own mood. The busy din of the city was farther away from his residence, and he only heard the occasional car pass on the street through shoveled snow at this time of night. As he did routinely, he checked the day's mail in the bin hanging on the wall, simply grabbing it all at once, only to set it down at the door. Nils' tired hand fumbled about in his back pocket as he furrowed his brow in light frustration until he finally grasped them and pulled them out, picking the one out of more than a few others that would unlock the front door. Twisting the key in its lock and pulling it out, he picked up the envelopes and catalogues and lazily pushed the door open with his shoulder, letting the hinges close it for him as he kicked off his loosely tied oxfords, which came to tumble on the floor unceremoniously. Setting down his bag by the door and hanging his coat, Nils stumbled to the living room sofa, where he let himself sink into its plush comfort and mail slap down nearby, not even bothering to turn on any lights. Satisfied, he breathed slowly and deeply, hoping that the home's air would refresh him.

An annoyed mew soon broke his perfect silence, followed by the sound of small feet padding towards the couch. A cat that was a mass of long, white fur leapt up to join Lukas, though seemed to him as if it were miffed that it wasn't immediately fed or paid attention to, for the feline flicked its bushy tail at his chest while circling and settling beside Nils.

"Vidar," he groaned,"Nils is very tired. Let him rest, and then you'll be fed. Is that agreeable?" Vidar responded eventually with another meow, getting up to further poke at Nils by climbing up to his stomach and curling up there, inciting a grunt from the Norwegian. "Scoundrel," he said quietly, lifting a hand to leisurely stroke Vidar between the ears. Nils sighed, staring at this living ball of white for the longest time as he thought.

Vidar has been a part of his home for only a few years thus far. His reason for adopting the shelter cat was clear enough- he was lonely, plain and simple. The house was too quiet. Though quiet was what he liked, it was far too quiet for his taste, the quiet of pain and not of solace. It was far too easy to remember the times when there was more than just a cat's lounging and purrs, a time that had long passed. Nils loathed it. He hated it more than anything else in his life. He despised it more than anything else that aggravated him, and it was this spite that drove his lust. A particular lust that he wanted to savor every time he sent the pious to their deaths, drowning in toxins. Nils wanted to watch them write and suffer slowly, as they deserved no easy death. People like them ripped others' lives into pieces.

People like them ripped _his _life into pieces.

Nils couldn't fathom why some people thought it was so wrong and even unholy to wrench life from another's body. Everyone cared so much about the ones who murdered, but never enough about the corrupt. He found it rather humorous, scoffing at it every time. If there weren't a law against it, the same people who scorned such acts would've likely murdered many others they deemed insufferable. Hypocrites were one of the many he found truly intolerable, but it was a lesser crime that he would've wanted to punish. No, he liked to watch the truly wicked and corrupt bleed from internal hemorrhage, the powerful, rich, and greedy choke on their own saliva as their mouths foamed. The thoughts and memories of such almost made him smile, if it were not for his other recollections of the past that drove him to this in the first place.

Anger and lust always seemed to give way to his grief and depression. It was struggle he hated to deal with that was only eased on occasion by Vidar, whom he depended on for comfort in the cat's soft fur he kept perfectly groomed and the calm purrs that would smooth the edges of his episodes. Yet, sometimes Nils couldn't help but remember the days of when the fur was younger hair he could stroke to comfort the other in times of strife that so commonly plagued Nils at the time. He missed the days where he had his dear younger brother, who often proved to be the source of Nils' joy in the time. He would cry that those were only distant memories now, but that's always how his downward spirals started, and he simply couldn't afford it at the time.

A weak murmur escaped his lips, bringing his feet up to the edge of the couch. As if it detected its owner's terrible mood, Vidar crept up to his chest and snuggled next to his face. Nils turned his head so that he would avoid breathing in fur, but still nestled his cheek against the feline, taking his arms and wrapping them around Vidar loosely. Sometimes, Nils could just lose himself in the cat that brought him some comfort as a crutch. It was best in these moments, when he only seemed to exist in his house. Surely he went to daily practice, but it never seemed to boost his mood, nor did his quiet readings at the library, coffee runs, strolls in the park, or the terse conversations between his acquaintances at the theatre. They weren't quite what he would call friends, only people who he knew enough about to act with them. His thoughts trailed off, and Nils remained inanimate for a few minutes longer.

"Alright, Vidar, get up, I'll check the mail and you'll be fed..." He trailed off lowly, the ball of fur quickly standing and bounding off his chest to the carpeted floor, padding away to the kitchen to impatiently await its meal. Nils sat up, as surely lounging about like that for much longer wouldn't be good for his immaculate posture. He grabbed the dissheveled pile of mail and sorted through them, setting aside the advertisement, coupon books, and junk to be tossed out. There wasn't anything of interest other than his weekly informer about the arts in the city.

Quickly, he skimmed it, but settled on one article detailing a new exhibit at the arts museum, although at first he was unsure about why it interested him so much. A moment later, he remembered: The painter he aided at the theatre. That was almost a week ago, surely. Hans, he called himself. Nils absent-mindedly tapped the article as he thought, recalling the short times they spoke between then and now after practice, and the phone numbers exchanged at the beginning. He hadn't really thought to call Hans, but considering his line of work and interest from what he could gather, Nils decided that it'd at least be something to distract him tomorrow.

He set down the informer open on the museum's article, then fished out his phone from the pocket. Its lone light lit up his face, and he squinted at it with how suddenly bright it was. Dialing up the number, he waited for the tones to stop and Hans to pick up.

Something popped, and Hans' excited voice came over clearly, "Nils? No waaaay, I've been waiting for a call! What's up?"

If only the man's evident excitement would seep into Nils' body.

"Ja, ja, no need to be loud about it. ...Joking. I'll be to the point, I saw that the arts museum has some new exhibits. I need something to do, and you seem enthusiastic enough about it. I could get us tickets, and you could be my tour guide or something." Nils' words rolled lazily off his tongue.

"You sound real tired, but sure! Sure, sure, sure, sounds fun! Where do we meet?" he asked ecstatically.

"Let's just meet outside the museum gate. Mid-day. Sound fair enough?"

"Definitely, oh yeah! You know, I could pay for us instead, if ya wanted-"

"Don't be silly, it's my pleasure. More than happy to."

A chuckle could be heard from Hans on the other line. "Well, if you insist. We'll talk tomorrow, then!" he chirped happily, and Nils bid his goodbyes before hanging up, letting the phone lie on the couch as he pulled himself to his feet. He'd find out later if he'd regret this or not, but surely spending time with anyone would push his spirits up. Especially someone who seemed so excited to have made a new friend in someone like himself. He could practically taste Hans' story when they first met. Right away from his demeanor, he could see Hans was nervous about meeting him. Therefore, he must not be too great at making many friends. At that, he wondered how many this Dane even had, if so. Probably more than Nils, no doubt, who for now only had a cat.

Speaking of cat, he strode to the kitchen to feed Vidar his precious kibble, that which he had so far denied the fuzzball of in the midst of his wallowing. He would have to remind himself to check his shares and the market before bed...


	5. Exhibits

The walls of the museum were decorated with portraits and paintings from famed artist of multiple backgrounds, the centers of the extensive halls being occupied by sculptures and busts. Nils and Hans had walked by each work of art one by one, and if he knew of the artist, he would attempt to give an abridged biography about them. This was somewhat difficult for him as he was inclined to rattle on, particularly if the artist was a favorite of his. Nils only truly listened to his words half the time he spoke, his dark mind wading in shadowy waters of understanding. Sometimes, Nils would remark to himself that he should be paying attention; otherwise he might be thought of as rude by his new, extremely talkative companion. Hans was, in fact, highly aware of Nils' divided attention, but he tried to pretend that he wasn't in the hopes that eventually something he said would fully grasp the other man's attention. He'd already gotten farther than he usually had when making a new acquaintance, and he was determined not to lose the opportunity now by fading out as he often did.

Hans had just finished a monologue on a sculpture, and led Nils down to the other side of the walls, where he stopped before a painting of vivid, bright colors that immediately caught Hans' eye and made them shine in adoration. Nils followed almost blindly, hands hanging from his pockets by thumbs. Hans began his next lecture almost immediately with a smile almost as colorful as the work's.

After clearing his throat, Hans asked, "So, Nils, easy question: Who painted this?" Nils focused on it, but his head still drifted elsewhere, and he couldn't give an answer.

"I don't know. You'll have to educate me." Nils said blandly. Hans rolled his eyes in response with a smug smile, then indicated the label at the bottom of the painting with an open hand.

"Vincent van Gogh, probably one of my all-time favorites!"

"You've said that about almost all the artists we've went over so far."

"...I'm very bad at making top ten lists or whatever."

Nils rolled his eyes and nodded at the painting to cue Hans to continue. With a slightly worried twiddling of his thumbs, he repeated, "So, Van Gogh. This painting... it's called The Cafe Terrace on the Place du Forum." Hans' pronunciation of the French portion of the title was accurate to how the French themselves might say it, and Hans, thus far, made a point to articulate correctly the names of other paintings on their tour.

"This is the part where you tell me of its significance?" Nils presumed, to which Hans nodded vigorously with a particularly ecstatic expression. "It is! So glad you're listening to me," he chortled, continuing with, "Since you've been somewhere this whole time that wasn't here. Well, this one in particular is so interesting to me because it was Van Gogh's first painting with a starry sky. You know where it led?"

"Starry Night. Right?" Nils tersely replied.

"That's right! So that's why this painting is so important! It leads up to his most popular painting... like, ever."

Nils paused, then looked him the eye as he asked, "Well... Why is Van Gogh so important to you, anyways?"

Hans looked at him almost as if it were as obvious as a giraffe in a herd of zebras. "Why is Van Gogh so important? Well... He suffered from a lot of conditions. Lots of mental issues... very erratic, very lacking in self-confidence, very... depressed." The last word spoken was as if he was too familiar with it. "I just always thought that a man like that was the greatest to deal with all these horrible things, but still give to us his brilliance on a canvas! I mean, hell, Nils! He ate yellow paint because he thought it would make him happier!"

The Norwegian gave him a dubious stare, and wondered how on Earth something as simple as pigmented paste would make one's life less of an emotional hell. If life were that easy, people everywhere would be a lot more joyful, gulping down the sunny color like junk food. The very disgusting thought of it almost made him cringe, or at least, the idea of eating paint of all things to give him peace. Still, despite its ludicrous nature, Nils somehow found himself empathizing with Van Gogh on the theory.

Truth and lies were the very nature of his line of work, and it was his job to lie to an audience that he loved another actress who also lied about being the character he supposedly loved. Lies were the basis of acting, and he was a talented liar. Those who couldn't lie couldn't act, and that was just the way it was. As such, Nils had an acute sense of truths, lies, and acts, and had always been suspicious about Hans' own state of mind. Out of the blue, he guessed aloud.

"You don't have many friends, do you?"

The shocking accuracy of the question took Hans by surprise, and his smile flattened. He couldn't help but to answer honestly, even though he convinced himself that if he were anything less than perfect, nobody would want to associate with him. "No... I don't. I try. It's just really hard for me. And sometimes I don't understand it at all."

Nils nodded slowly, though Hans was quick to speak again. "But it's not like it's a bad thing! At least the ones I do have, I'm super close with!"

"You've no need to appear better than you are. It's actually..." Nils paused, briefly questioning whether or not to trust this new person with the abhorrent status of his own social life. "...A little funny how I'm the one who asks that."

"Why's that? You don't have many either?"

"Next to none."

"Not even your fellow thespians?"

"I work with them. That's all."

Hans' eyes seemed to sadden, and though he sometimes thought he was alone in the world on this problem, he now knew Nils was an even lonelier man than himself. "I'm sorry about that Nils. I really, really am." Hans commented sadly.

"You have no need to be. It only bothers me just a bit. Although... I suppose your company isn't so bad. Certainly more so striving to be familiar with me than my peers." Nils scoffed at his own dry remark about them.

"No kidding. But I definitely know how you feel if that's any other kinda' consolation or somethin'." Hans knitted his fingers together as he said so.

The Dane interested Nils, he wouldn't deny it as he'd only met him but a little over a week ago, but he seemed to care more than anyone else had at this stage in life. Therefore, he was very interested in acquiring more knowledge about the other's situation. "I appreciate it, but tell me a little more, if that's acceptable. I've been noticing the entire time. You fidget, at times when you're particularly nervous, your knees wobble a little. Social anxiety, if I had to take a stab at it...?" Hans was, again, shocked at how spot on Nils' guesses were.

"You could say that, yes. It's been a huge problem for a long time! I mean, my friends say that they're surprised when I tell them, and they say that I'm so lively or something like that. But it can happen to anyone, although I wish it didn't. My life's not exciting, and I try so much to make it how I want, but I can't." Hans' frustration was evident in the stress of his words, and Nils listened fervently.

"Is that so? Then I suppose that makes two of us. But, why isn't interesting? Didn't you say you were... what, an interior designer? Isn't art what you love to do?"

"Yes, it is! Just... not interior design. I mean, yeah, it's exciting, but I just studied in it because my mother always said that it's a better paying job than what I would've wanted to do instead."

"And? What is it you really wanted to do?"

"Be an illustrator! For like, kid's books and stuff! Fairy tales!" Hans' excitement at the mention of the occupation came across clearly enough to Nils to elicit a very quiet chuckle.

"I can see you really wanted that." he noted, and the Dane nodded excitably in return, but soon resumed his dreary demeanor on the subject.

"I did... but even though I got a better paying job, it's just not so great. Ya know? And it's really frustrating because even though I get paid more than I would've, I'm still stuck in an apartment. And then, all I do is exist. At least the theatre's painting jobs giving me something to look forward to."

Nils lifted a hand then, balled it into a fist, and lightly tapped it on Hans' shoulder. At least, he thought that's what regular people do when comforting. "Well, er... That's good, then. You do a great job at it." he assured the Dane.

The Dane almost seemed hopeful at Nils' small piece of encouragement, softly asking, "You really think so?" Yes, even Berwald would say something just like that, but Hans never thought highly of himself. With his dissatisfaction in life, he always considered it another failure to add to his pacific ocean-sized list of faults.

Yet, Nils only offered a sincere glance, filled with that of hardly seen compassion. The Norwegian almost never offered such a thing, as he tended to disregard all those around him. "Assuredly. I say it with no doubts. Someone of that merit, I think, would deserve a life more interesting than the one you describe having."

Such terms made Hans tremble where he stood, sheepishly staring down at his locked hands as if they would offer some sort of guidance to him on how to thank this man, much less respond back. However, shortly Hans' eyes returned up to meet with Nils', for as kind as he was being, Hans felt it was only right to return that favor. "But Nils, that goes for you, too."

"Excuse me?" Nils almost seemed confused by the other's consideration.

"Yeah! You do deserve it, too! You deserve friends, and I have no clue why someone won't reach out!"

"I thank you, but-"

Hans refused to take that as an answer outright. "No way! From now on, I'll call you every day! Every single, absolute day! I want to make sure you're happy! As my new friend, and all..." Hans trailed off, hoping Nils would affirm that they were, indeed, now more than just acquaintances.

Nils took a significant moment to think on it, but concluded it would be an advantage. Besides, all this time wallowing at home was wasting his time. There were more out in the immediate area who must be dealt with, and being trapped in another mud of depression was keeping him from deciding on another victim. "...Sure. Thanks. I'll look forward to it. It'd certainly make my home much less unbearably quiet."

A smile spread across Hans' face, glad to receive that he was now important to somebody else.

"And, you know," Hans continued as the other looked at him with a raised brow, "I can make that better. So let's make a deal. What we have? It's hard... And sometimes things happen, right? The waves of it... if you catch my drift. How's this sound: If you feel in the dumps at any time... just call, alright? We can arrange to hang out or something. I don't know if it'd do you any good, but you never know. I could use it, too, sometimes."

Nils wasn't surprised by many things, as he couldn't afford to be. But he hadn't had anybody this close to him in ages, and it wasn't so close at all when given considerable thought. The last time he chose to rely on someone, it bit him in the throat and tried to strangle him. It certainly succeeded in leaving a gaping wound in his heart, but he vowed never to let it occur again. Despite this, the fool he could now call friend might actually be able to help him. Cats might be fuzzy, but they don't speak, even if he tried hard to picture it when he talked to Vidar.

The proposal put forth by Hans was subsequently accepted, much to Hans' sheer delight, and they continued on their quest through the museum, though with a bit more energy on Nils' role by actively listening to Hans this time around. The Dane's heart squealed like a child with a new puppy as he found it gradually easier to speak with Nils throughout the tour, and could swear on his life that he could practically feel in his bones the new bonds strengthening, only increasing his happiness. The art history lessons slowly began to melt into small talk and conversation, and by the time they left, Hans and Nils were several cents more content than their rigid meeting in front of the doors hours before.

* * *

**Hi all, it's author Lulu. Immensely sorry for the length between the last update and this one, school and a new job's been going on, so I cranked this one out. Also sorry that it's very short, but I hope you like strengthening friendships anyways. As always, reviews and things like that are always welcome.**

**-Lulu**


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